Gifted
by radiboyn
Summary: For as long as he can remember, Spencer Reid has been called gifted. Right now, sitting at the round table with the rest of the team, he finds it hard to think of himself as anything close. [Autistic!Reid. Part 1 of the Gifted trilogy. Originally posted on AO3.]


For as long as he can remember, Spencer Reid has been called _gifted_.

Every teacher, every professor, every mentor he's ever had has called him the word. Right now, sitting at the round table with the rest of the team, he finds it hard to think of himself as anything close. Remembering every night he's spent curled up and shaking with his head under the covers, pleading desperately with his brain to slow down, to stop seeing and stop noticing and stop processing every detail and let him sleep – it feels closer to a curse than anything else.

He whines and tugs on the hem of his sweater vest, desperate to stim. _Not here_ _,_ he mentally berates himself, _you will not do that here_.

He refocuses on the file in front of him. Hotch is saying something, has been talking with the others for the past five minutes. But Spencer hasn't been listening. The pictures in the file make his head spin and his hands want to flap or tap or pull-

"Reid? What do you think?" Hotch's voice cuts through his thoughts like a hot knife through butter.

He thinks they're probably talking about the wounds on the girl's hands. "Defensive, probably," he says casually, like there isn't fire burning under his skin. He keeps his eyes glued to the file, refusing to look up. Eye contact burns, and he can't fake it, not today. "The angle suggests the unsub was above her – he's probably forcing them to kneel somehow."

The conversation continues, and Reid blows out a breath quietly. Nobody notices. Nobody sees. He just has to keep it up until the briefing is over, and the he can find someplace quiet and let off some steam.

"Seattle PD are expecting us. Wheels up in thirty," Hotch announces. The whole group pushes to standing, and Spencer follows perhaps too quickly, knocking his chair over backwards.

He doesn't stop to pick it up. Someone else will do it. If he does it, they might notice the way his entire body is shaking, like it's trying to fly apart and pull into his centre all at once.

He makes a bee-line for the bathrooms and locks himself in a stall. Immediately, his hands start moving in a flurry of activity, flapping around him. He shakes them firmly in an effort to dispel the buzzing energy in them, like he's trying to shake water from his fingertips, but the feeling remains. A fist comes up to hit at his chest once, twice. His chest feels good, solid underneath his touch.

He has to stop. This sort of behaviour shouldn't be brought to his workplace. He needs to keep it together. _Keep still. Quiet hands, Spencer. Be quiet._

He looks at the watch strapped loosely over his shirt sleeve. He has twenty minutes before he's expected to be on the jet, sat still and calm and not hitting himself or flapping or buzzing. Or repeating words. He can feel the words Hotch said sat on the tip of his tongue, desperate to dance off. But he can't, can't, can't repeat what his team are saying. Echolalia is weird and annoying and he has to control it around them.

Only, the flight to Seattle is five hours, and he cannot spend five hours trapped in a tiny airborne box with a group of profilers and keep up this act.

But he's going to have to try.

"Wheels up in thirty," he whispers. He hopes the other stalls are still empty. He doesn't remember hearing anyone else coming in. "Wheels up in thirty. Wheels up in thirty."

The words feel natural in his mouth. They don't quite bring calm, but the feeling of evenness that spreads through him is close enough. "Wheels up in thirty."

Other people's words are easier than his own. "Wheels up in thirty-" he taps his fingertips against his chest, letting out a breath.

[-]

Spencer knows that, logically, the short car journey to the airstrip takes the same length of time it always does, but it seems to drag on as anxiety builds in the centre of his chest. He doesn't know why this is happening, doesn't know what's triggered it, but he's dangerously close to giving everything away. He drums his fingertips against his thighs and can only hope that JJ doesn't notice.

"Flight time is 4 hours 38, arriving in Seattle at 6am local time," Hotch informs them once they've boarded. Reid tucks himself into a window seat, feeling less like he's going to fly apart if he's in the enclosed space. "I suggest you all get some rest. We'll go over the facts and start the profile an hour before landing."

Reid tries his best to breathe steadily through his nose. He can manage this.

There's no way he's going to sleep. There's too much nervous energy thrumming through him. His body feels too light, and he presses himself further into the seat, wishing he had his weighted lap pad or blanket with him.

Hotch sits across from him. The rest of the team are sat in their own spaces elsewhere; Derek behind him and facing the other way with his headphones plugged in, JJ on the couch, Gideon behind Hotch.

"Get some rest, Reid," Hotch says gently.

"Hm?" Reid hums, examining the table in front of him.

"Get some rest," Hotch repeats, his voice still quiet. "We've got a busy few days ahead of us. You need to sleep before we start working the case."

Spencer shifts and turns, trying to feign getting comfortable for sleep as best he can.

It takes Hotch exactly eighteen minutes and thirty-nine seconds to fall asleep, after which point Spencer lets out a tense breath and sits back upright.

The quiet of the jet is suffocating. He's not one for constant noise, is easily overwhelmed by persistent and annoying sounds, but he needs some sort of stimulation when he's like this. He fights every instinct he has that tell shim to hum or keen gently, despite knowing how good it would feel to listen to the monotone sound, to feel it in his chest or throat or –

he catches himself tensing, like he's going to give in. A surge of anxiety pushes through him. _Not here,_ he bargains with himself desperately. _They don't need to know, please, not here._

The more he worries about it, the more difficult it becomes to resist. He flaps his right hand turbulently, squeezing his eyes shut. It's like holding a sneeze; probably futile, but he's still going to try until he can no longer delay the inevitable.

"Stop," he whispers, his breath catching sharply. "Stop, stop, stop. Shh. Shhhhh. Shh."

Once he falls into the rhythm of making the shushing sound in short, sharp bursts, he can't stop. The sensation feels too good in his mouth, counteracting all the bad input he's getting from everything around him.

He doesn't realise he's rocking in his seat until he catches his elbow on his knee, and by then it's too late. He's slipping, losing hold of the carefully constructed neurotypical façade he's desperate to maintain.

"Shh. Stop. Ugh-" he groans, turning his entire torso sideways, as if restricting himself physically is the way to stop all this happening. He brings his feet up to rest on the seat, so his entire body is facing the aisle.

He clenches his eyes shut, lips moving quickly as if saying words. He tries to stop any sound from falling out, but it's futile, a few errant shushes and whines leaving him in frustration.

When the sound is down, the rocking intensifies. It's a balance. He can stop one or the other, but not both.

"Spencer?"

He freezes.

Oh, God.

"Reid, are you okay?"

It's Hotch. He's awake.

Spencer probably woke him. _Stupid, stupid._

He hears Hotch lean across the table. Spencer is still facing sideways, his eyes screwed shut.

"Reid, tell me what's happening."

"Get some rest," Spencer says, his voice quiet and hoarse. He immediately winces. He's repeating Hotch's words. _Stop this, before it goes any further._

"Spencer?" Hotch's voice is confused but gentle, like he knows there's something horribly, horribly wrong, but doesn't know what.

"Get some rest. You need to- sleep. Sleep. Shh. Stop."

He can't stop the words tumbling from his mouth. A hand moves up to cling at his collar, pulling.

"Spencer, I don't know what's going on," Hotch admits honestly. "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

"Hurts," Spencer whispers. He doesn't know where it comes from; he's not repeating, and he hadn't thought to describe the buzzing under his skin and in his mouth and in his brain as something that hurts.

"What hurts?" Hotch encourages.

The hand not clutching at his collar flaps loosely at his side. "I don't feel right. There's not enough information," he explains helplessly.

There's a brief silence, and then Hotch speaks up, voice clear. "You're understimulated? Is that it?"

"Mm-hmm," Reid confirms, his hand still flapping at his side.

"What do you need to do to fix that?" Hotch asks. He's incredulously calm.

Spencer turns his face into the seat, hiding it from Hotch's view. "I need to make noise and move but you're not supposed to know-" his breath hitches- "nobody is supposed to know."

"Know what, Reid?"

"That I'm like this," he breathes, like he's whispering some huge secret, and then it's all pouring out. "I'm not supposed to be like this. They tried to stop me but it didn't work and it _hurt_ , but I've been trying so hard not to let anyone see-"

"Alright, Reid," Hotch cuts through him. Spencer hadn't realised he'd been rocking in his twisted position. He's mortified that he's breaking down like this in front of his boss. "Spencer, listen to me. You don't have to hide anything from us." There's a brief pause. "I need to know you'll do what you need to do to feel comfortable."

Spencer feels tears form. That's not right, that's not what he's been told his whole life. He's been told to sit still and stop flapping and rocking and humming, stop letting everyone see how weird he is. "But it's… then everyone will _see_."

"Spencer," Hotch's voice has taken on an even quieter, gentler tone. "Does 'quiet hands' mean anything to you?"

Spencer freezes, his core going cold. "Quiet," he hisses, hitting his chest.

 _Where they used to hit him._

"Okay," Hotch sounds disheartened, like that one exchange has explained everything, "alright. If I can promise you that nobody on the jet will be angry or annoyed at you, will you do what you need to do?"

Spencer's chest tightens. Hotch can't promise that, it's impossible. But tempting. He nods his head against the seat.

Hotch goes silent after that, and Spencer sits stock still, listening on high alert. From his position curled against the leather, he can't see what's going on, but his hypersensitive hearing tells him that Hotch has pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. What he does with after that is lost to Spencer.

"Alright," Hotch says finally. "Spencer, do what you need to do."

The noise that immediately escapes Spencer's throat is embarrassingly instinctual; something halfway between a steady groan and a more painful whine. It builds as he starts to release some of the pressure gathered under his skin, eventually turning into a monotone hum that mimics the sound of the jet that surrounds them.

When the humming is no longer enough, he starts rocking again, steadily. He hasn't opened his eyes yet and so can't see Hotch's reaction, but his skin heats with the mental image he conjures of disgust and discomfort that's surely radiating from his boss right now.

Still, the combination of movement and the sensation of producing sound helps to regulate the sense of unbalance he's so desperate to get rid of, so he carries on. He'll deal with explanations and apologies and repercussions (his heart hammers at the thought of punishment) later. Right now, this is what he needs.

Eventually, the intensity of his stimming starts to wane, and he uncurls from his position, sitting up straighter and breathing deeply and smoothly, finally satisfied with the air reaching his lungs. A sense of bone-deep calm washes through him, and he opens his eyes, glassy and unfocused but not wincing or straining anymore.

"Reid?" Hotch's voice is soft, just like before. A distant part of Spencer recognises that Hotch doesn't sound angry; he sounds patient. People aren't normally patient, not when he can't control himself.

"Hmm?" he replies, not looking up, instead refocusing on the table in front of him.

"Are you feeling better now?" Hotch asks.

Spencer nods and clears his throat, intent on speaking but finding he doesn't have anything to say. He nods again, more firmly, eyes flicking around the jet as he recalibrates, putting himself back in the room

"Are you tired?" Hotch asks.

Spencer considers his answer. He's not used to operating away from the precise schedule he follows at home (brush teeth at 10:14, wash face at 10:18, change into pyjamas at 10:20, get into bed at 10:22, read until 10:26, then sleep). He realises he doesn't really know what it means to feel actually tired and decide to go to sleep based on that- he is asleep when his schedule says he is, and awake if it says so.

"Let me rephrase," Reid thinks Hotch might sound vaguely amused, but he can't tell. "Do you think you could sleep for the rest of the flight if I could find a heavy blanket?"

Spencer perks up at the mention of something heavy. He thinks of his own weighted blanket, sitting folded on his own bed at home, and nods.

"Wait here," Hotch says, which Spencer wants to point out is unnecessary, because he isn't likely to go anywhere in the confined space of the jet.

Hotch is back moments later with a pillow in a pale blue case, and a matching blanket that looks thick and warm and, though not purposefully weighted, heavy enough for him to feel it wrapped around him.

"Here," Hotch hands them down, taking his own seat again. "Get yourself comfortable."

"Thank you, Sir," Spencer says sincerely. He tucks the pillow against the window and wriggles around until it's comfortably wedged between his head and shoulder and the glass. He tugs the blanket around himself tightly, feeling the residual tension draining out of himself as he's enveloped by a feeling close to home.

"Before you go to sleep," Hotch says quietly, waiting for Spencer to open his eyes again. "I need you to know that, if you're feeling under or overstimulated at any point, you can do whatever it is that makes you feel comfortable. You don't need to wait for permission. If you have to stim, Spencer, you can stim. Nobody on this team will ever tell you otherwise."

Of the conflicting emotions warring inside him, Spencer tries to focus on the relief the most. "Thank you, Sir," he says quietly. "I… thank you."

Hotch nods, seemingly content with the reply. "Get some rest, Spencer."

He does.


End file.
